


Leave The Memories Alone

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: Tumblr Prompt Challenge [8]
Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Naruto, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:11:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Thirteen drabbles and one-shots.





	1. Meld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/161293863101/imagine-your-otp-have-different-soulmate-charms)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

Hers is a body that was designed to fit his. 

Izuna knows this, knows it every time he presses against her, mouths meeting as easily as two rivers flowing toward the same ocean. 

The red of her hair is velvet-smooth within his grip, flowing through his fingers like sand through a clenched fist. She shifts upon his lap. He shifts inside her. 

Their mouths find each other over and over again. Kushina always tastes like something sweet and forbidden. Tastes like _wrong_ and so much _right._

They kiss because they can't get enough of each other. They kiss so they wouldn't have to open their eyes. 

This, Izuna knows, is the sweetest, greatest, most painful love of all. 

When Kushina opens her eyes, she will see him in shades of gray. 

He will see her in technicolor. 

So he buries himself within her — arms curled tight around her waist, against the skin of her back where the ink on his arm lies hidden — and chants her name over and over, pretending he can forget the name on his wrist that isn't anything like her own.


	2. Memory

Tobirama looks at the boy and remembers the man.

Uchiha Madara, dead and alive, Hashirama's face an abomination upon his chest. His eyes that were filled with emptiness. His chakra, this twisted, ugly, desperate thing; so wild and hateful and so very _sad._

Tobirama watches Madara crying by the river's edge, and remembers the future. He remembers fear and death, children and comrades turned to corpses and nourishment for a tree. 

He remembers the future and knows regret. 

Tobirama watches Madara and thinks that this is how it always starts — with solitude and an eroded heart. Today, he mourns his oldest brother. Tobirama knows that tomorrow, Madara will mourn another. His sister is long dead. Some years from now, in a future that has already happened but _hasn't,_ he will mourn the only sibling he has left. 

Tobirama remembers Izuna and knows that this is how it begins. 

This is how Madara fell, and it was _Tobirama_ who'd had a hand in his breaking.

He will not live through that future again.

Tobirama leaves his hiding place within the trees. 

And he sits by Madara's side.


	3. March

It's depressing, how well you know this path. 

You could climb this hill backward and blindfolded, and you would always know this earth, this grass, this thinning air. You, with the comforting weight of Shigure Kintoki upon your back, in your fancy suit and fancy shoes that weren't made for climbing countryside hills at all.

You reach the top and are unsurprised to find Xanxus already there. 

You watch him for a moment, back turned, his jacket billowing in the breeze. His head is bowed, though not in prayer, _never_ in prayer. You know him too well. 

You reach his side. Only then, does he raise his head. He does not glance your way. He offers you no greeting and you offer silence in return. He reaches into his jacket, withdraws the flask he's bought for this day. The same gift every year. 

He unscrews the cap, lifts it in a toast. "Happy Birthday, Squalo," he says, and takes a drink. 

You retrieve your pack of Peace cigarettes. You light one and take a deep drag, pulling smoke into your lungs like bitter salvation. You exhale. "Happy Birthday," you echo. _You fucking selfish bastard,_ you silently add. 

The same ritual. The same words. _Eight fucking years._

Funny how Xanxus has taken to calling Squalo by name now that he is dead. Funny how you've stopped saying his name entirely. 

Funny how this twisted role reversal isn't funny at all. 

Xanxus places the flask against the unmarked stone that is indicative of Squalo's supposed resting place. He's always had a penchant for high places. The gravestone is nothing but a symbol. He'd had no burial, for there was nothing left of him to bury.

Not even his fucking sword.

You place your cigarette atop the stone. You watch the sun set and pretend it's setting the world aflame. You wish it would take you with it.


	4. More

If she were a weapon, she would be a sword.

Asami thinks this, gaze traversing the path from her flat belly to the heavy sway of her breasts to the dark hickey blooming upon her elegant neck. He observes her mouth, curved upward in a coquettish smile. Her face that's cold and haughty and beautiful all at once.

Bianchi is sharp green eyes and a sharper tongue, cruelty and wit and the very epitome of _sex._

Asami wants to touch, wants to devour, wants to _fuck,_ but he _can't._

The ropes around his wrists and ankles are excruciatingly, pleasurably tight. They bite into his flesh like a knife, pricking, tingling. Asami thinks about the marks they'll leave later and his cock _jumps._

Bianchi eyes him, gaze knowing. 

She saunters toward the bed and crawls into his lap, one hand pressed firmly against his chest as if to hold him down. Her mouth is a mischievous smirk. Her eyes are promises Asami knows she would fulfill if he behaves.

He does not move. His muscles are pulled taut with the strain of it. The bedsheets are soaked in his sweat. His cock is rock-hard and _aching._

Bianchi smiles at him, eyes bright with amusement and greed. Her free hand finds his cock. She guides him toward her, hovering just above his head like the fucking wicked _tease_ she is. 

She rubs herself on him. He can feel how wet she's become. The heat of her that dances frustratingly out of reach with each slow, deliberate rock of her hips.

Asami wants and craves and really fucking _needs,_ but he would never beg and he knows that she knows it.

With no warning, she sinks onto him. 

She is a blade, piercing, tearing, drawing blood from his body and life from his lungs. 

Her name is a moan through Asami's valiantly gritted teeth. 

And Bianchi's grin widens, her eyes, triumphant.


	5. Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/103636383504/person-a-tries-to-recreated-their-deceased)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

He begins with his eyes. 

Boruto gently — hesitantly — presses a kiss to each lid, kisses his way down the narrow line of Mitsuki's nose, his cheeks, his lips. 

Mitsuki's mouth parts beneath Boruto's own. He tastes like he always did. Something sweet and sharp that's always been uniquely, inherently _Mitsuki._

Boruto slides his tongue into his mouth. His hands are near bone-breaking grips upon Mitsuki's shoulders. 

He wonders if Mitsuki can read the tumult of his emotions through the violent tremble of his fingers.

Mitsuki's skin is warm, beneath his lips, beneath his hands. 

Warm enough to almost make Boruto believe that there's blood beneath his skin. 

Blood, in place of machinery.

  


* * *

  


It's the little things that bug him most. 

Like how Mitsuki constantly favors his left. The way he goes to sleep on his stomach and wakes on his back. The peppers in his omelet that're green instead of red. The distinct lack of milk in his coffee. 

Little things that remind Boruto that Mitsuki isn't really Mitsuki at all.

  


* * *

  


Sarada's the only one who doesn't judge him.

She sits by his side, on the ground, back against the wall of the abandoned peanut factory.

She says nothing, for which Boruto is thankful. He offers her his lit cigarette. She takes a drag, passes it back. 

This is _their_ spot — back when they were the inseparable, invincible three. This is where they used to hang out, talking about everything and nothing under the stars. This is the wall Boruto pressed Mitsuki up against when he kissed him for the first time. This is where they comforted Sarada when Sumire broke her heart.

They sit like this, sharing silence and a single cigarette.

The scent of Mitsuki hangs heavy in the air around them.

  


* * *

  


Most days, he hides out in their shared apartment, away from judgmental gazes and pitying looks. 

Boruto lies with Mitsuki on the couch, legs tangled and postures lazy. He runs his hand through Mitsuki's hair. 

He remembers how those pale blue strands felt when they were caked with blood.

  


* * *

  


"He's never going to be the same," Inojin tells him, blunt as ever. 

Boruto punches him in the nose and doesn't apologize, even when the guilt gnaws away at him like a rat eating its way out of his intestines.

Even when Mitsuki smiles at him that night in a way that's right and wrong.

  


* * *

  


Sometimes, he tries to fuck the pain away. 

Mitsuki is always willing; this hungry, lustful thing wrapping his limbs around Boruto, moaning all the right noises into his ear.

Each moment is excruciating in all its accuracy. Mitsuki is too hot, too slick, too _real_ even when he isn't. 

Boruto fucks Mitsuki into the couch and comes with a raw, anguished sound that's too much like a broken sob.

  


* * *

  


"I don't want to keep hurting you," Mitsuki tells him one day. His eyes are sad. His voice is different and the same.

Boruto wonders if Mitsuki loves him because he's programmed to, because he remembers, or because he simply _does._

It makes Boruto want to punch a hole through the wall.

He grabs Mitsuki by the shoulders, kisses him instead.

  


* * *

  


"Are you sure about this?" Katasuke asks, concern evident in the deep furrow of his brows. 

It's funny, Boruto thinks, how he'd been asked the very same thing when he'd stumbled into Katasuke's lab on a night similar to this one, broken and desperate and begging him to bring Mitsuki back.

In this moment, speech fails him. He feels his reply wither on the tip of his tongue. His mind and heart and every cell of his being are a chaotic mess, a churning amalgamation of _Yes_ and _Maybe_ and _Hell fucking No._

Boruto feels himself shattering from the inside out. 

But Mitsuki's hand is in his. Boruto is keenly aware of the warmth and weight of it, as comforting as it is painful, as familiar as it is foreign. Mitsuki's hand, squeezing Boruto's, gentle and firm, like he is, like he's always been. 

Boruto looks at him and finds Mitsuki staring back. His face that's resolute. The gold of his eyes that look a lot like love. 

_I don't want to keep hurting you._

Boruto looks at Katasuke. And he nods.

  


* * *

  


It is three years to the day since Mitsuki's death. 

Here, there is cold tile in place of hard earth. Sterile coolness in place of hot air. Silence, but for the broken sounds of Boruto's harsh breaths. 

He can taste the blood, feel it in his fingers running through Mitsuki's pristine hair. His mind unravels the way it did then. The world crumbles. Breaks and breaks and _breaks._

Boruto sits on the floor with Mitsuki in his arms, watching him die all over again.


	6. May

"Do you think," Izuna wonders, head pillowed on Akihito's lap, "that love is a good reason to get married?"

Akihito's thighs are warm against the back of Izuna's head. His fingers are soothing things in Izuna's hair. Izuna feels his eyes shut against the rhythm of them.

"It's good _enough,_ " Akihito replies. 

"My sister's getting married today," Izuna says, like it's news. Like it isn't the reason they're here, on the floor of their hotel room, the tile cold beneath the bare flesh of Izuna's body. 

Akihito hums. It could be his _We should probably get up off the floor 'cause my legs are cramping_ hum, or his _Your hair's making me hard again_ hum. 

Izuna thinks it's a little of both. 

"My brother's all excited about it," he says, and he doesn't have to specify _which_ brother. Izuna's only got _one_ younger than he is and it's no secret that Madara — for all his bluster and cooler-than-thou façade — has always been in love with the idea of being in love.

"That's cute," Akihito remarks, and Izuna can hear the smirk in it. Akihito's fingers keep their rhythm through Izuna's hair. His other hand comes to rest upon Izuna's cheek, traces the contour of his face, the line of his neck, walks its way down his chest, his belly, then lower, _lower_ — 

Izuna can feel Akihito's erection poking the back of his head. His own erection is a warm, pulsing thing in Akihito's callused palm. 

"I don't know if it's ever enough to just be in love," Izuna says with some difficulty, distracted by the dance of Akihito's hands touching all the right places.

  


* * *

  


There's muted porn on the TV. _Clinic_ on repeat, blaring through the speakers of Akihito's phone that lies beside them on the rumpled sheets. 

And Akihito, beloved camera in his hand. _Click. Click. Click._

Izuna rides his cock like a wanton harlot, certain that all the faces he's making are abso-fuckin'-lutely ridiculous. No one ever looks good when they're having sex.

But Akihito never minds. This, Izuna knows well. He snaps picture after picture of Izuna on top of him. He calls this _art._ He calls Izuna _beautiful._

And Izuna indulges him. Sometimes, he hams it up for the camera. He stares at Akihito beneath the flutter of his lashes. He smolders. 

"Izuna," Akihito says, his gasps part laughter, part pleasured moans. _"Izuna, Izuna,"_ like that's the only word he's got in his vocabulary. 

Maybe he's a narcissist, but Izuna's always loved hearing the sound of his own name. Though perhaps that's only 'cause _Akihito's_ the one saying it. 

He leans forward, bending Akihito's cock in _that_ way that he knows Akihito loves, licks a stripe from his chin to cheek. 

Akihito's words give way to incoherence. His arm falls to his side. The camera still lies in his grip, capturing them in an endless array of still-lifes. 

_Flash. Flash. Flash._

  


* * *

  


This is exactly the kind of thing that'd annoy him if it were done by anyone else.

But Izuna's the one doing it, so it's okay. He sits in the hallway, back against the wall of his hotel room, bouncing a rubber ball against the opposite wall. He's got a pattern going. _Bounce. Ricochet. Bounce. Ricochet._ The steady _thump-thump-thump_ relaxes him. 

Akihito leans against the wall, lit cigarette in hand, camera 'round his neck. The ball hits the wall two inches from where he's standing. His eyes seem to track its movement, amusement and boredom evident in their hazel depths. 

Izuna's eyes track Akihito's lips. He wishes he were that cigarette, between Akihito's fingers, between his mouth. Stupidly, he can feel himself hardening.

"We're gonna be late," Akihito says, as if he could read Izuna's mind that's perpetually in the gutter. They've got seven minutes to get their asses to the rooftop garden of the Shuraton Bay. Neither of them move. 

Izuna's bowtie still hangs loose around his collar. 

Akihito is ready and resplendent in his tux, and Izuna can't take his eyes off of him. 

His heart thumps like the red rubber ball against his chest. Breathing is suddenly a challenge. He convinces himself it's because of the smoke from Akihito's cigarette.

  


* * *

  


Izuna's always loved watching him work. 

Akihito's hands, the way they hold his camera as if it were something precious. The smile that doesn't leave his eyes. The way he looks through the viewfinder as if he can see to the very core of anyone or anything he's capturing. 

Akihito once told him that it's an unexplainable rush, this power of holding something captive, if only for a moment. Then, seeing that moment immortalized.

Takaba Akihito — Izuna realized then — very much relished playing God.

This is one of those Kodak moments. Izuna's parents, teary-eyed behind them. Izuna's sister — the giddy bride — in the middle. Izuna and his brothers flanking her, two to a side. 

Akihito doesn't have to get them to smile. He gets them to yell something incredibly cheesy. He wants silly photos as well as elegant ones. 

Izuna isn't paying much attention to his words. He is mesmerized by Akihito, awash in the light of the setting sun that paints his hair golden. He does not blink. He does not want to miss a moment of this. 

Akihito at work. Akihito in his suit that Izuna can't wait to rip off of him. 

His grin is a mad, mad thing. He grins for Akihito.

  


* * *

  


_Akihito could've chosen a different life._

Izuna thinks this, watching him spin Yukino around the dance floor. His sister is radiant, her gigantic smile matching Akihito's wide grin. Izuna thinks — under different circumstances — they'd make a pretty cute couple.

He likes watching Akihito dance. The man is the perfect balance of fluid and flexible, confident enough to be silly without looking stupid. Sex in a suit and polished shoes. 

There is almost nothing he doesn't enjoy watching Akihito do. 

They twirl and twirl, coming to a stop before Izuna, breathless and laughing. 

"You'll have to take over from here, little brother," Yukino tells him, eyes bright and cheeks red. "My feet can't keep up with this guy any longer."

She pulls Akihito into a quick hug. "Happy Birthday, darling. Thank you for the dance."

Akihito kisses her on the cheek. "Anytime, Yukino-san." Then, he grabs Izuna's hand and drags him onto the dance floor. 

_He chose **me,**_ Izuna thinks, lacing his fingers behind Akihito's neck. 

Akihito's hands come to rest around Izuna's waist. He presses their foreheads together. His breaths are slowing.

Izuna inhales cologne and sweat and _Akihito._ They dance in languid silence, ignoring the uptempo melody, ignoring all the rapidly moving bodies around them. 

"This is nice," Akihito says. His fingers travel upward to playfully tug on Izuna's ponytail. His other hand roams downward, shamelessly groping Izuna's ass. 

Izuna crashes their lips together, biting on Akihito's tongue in retaliation. He tastes blood and pink champagne. "Shut up," he growls against the corner of Akihito's shit-eating grin.

"Hey," Akihito says, fingers tangling in the edges of Izuna's hair. " _We're_ enough, aren't we?"

Izuna shrugs. Not because he doesn't know, but because they're so much _more_ than _just enough._

He looks at Akihito and sees fire. Sparking and burning in his hazel eyes, a deep forest flame. Akihito's hands that touch him, feel him, hold him as if he were the only thing worth holding in this fucked up world.

Izuna's heart is a bird furiously beating its wings against the confines of his chest. He presses himself against Akihito's warm body, against the heart that beats — alacritous and _alive_ — like his own. 

_Come let me out._


	7. Mesmerize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/161457084866/imagine-your-otp-trying-to-find-a-good-valentines)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.

Watching her is both difficult and thrilling. She watches you through the cuffs she's dangling in front of you, like an owner tempting their pet with a treat that's just out of reach. 

"So _this_ is what you were so afraid to show me," she singsongs, the dark purple of her eyes alight with a predatory gleam. The tone of her voice. Her pretty fingers. The tilt of her body and the way she cocks her hip. Everything about her is an evil fucking _tease._

"You're a very naughty boy, Altin," she tuts and it's the kind of line that — coming from anyone else — would make you scoff and roll your eyes. 

But Sara Crispino isn't anyone else. 

You swallow, and her smile turns razor blade sharp.

She saunters toward you, hips swaying in a way that's dangerous and sexy. She presses a long-fingered hand to your chest, pushes you down till your back hits the mattress. 

You can't tear your gaze from hers. Hypnotic and hungry.

She straddles your thighs. 

And then it's the cuffs around your wrists, your pants that's halfway down your legs, your cock that's hard and leaking in her palm. 

Sara's lips upon the head of your cock. Hint of teeth along your shaft. And her nails that scrape long lines along the inside of your thigh. 

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. 

Sometimes, it's both.


	8. Mirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/171340293475/imagine-your-otp-goes-to-the-beach-one-of-them-is)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

There is a bruise in the shape of Akihito's mouth high upon his neck. 

Izuna runs his fingers over it and shivers, recalling Akihito's touch, his lips, his teeth, his _heat._ Akihito, who's hotter than the glare of the midday sun that beats upon his scalp, makes his head itch.

He's not embarrassed. Izuna's never been self-conscious about sex, but there are people staring at him, some of whom are not-so-subtly giggling and shooting him suggestive looks, and it's starting to get pretty fucking annoying. 

He wraps a towel around his neck, just as he notices Akihito approaching with two beers in his hand. 

The knowing smirk is quick to appear on Akihito's face. "Nobody wears scarves in _July,_ Izuna." His tone is deceptively casual. His eyes are blatantly unrepentant.

Izuna gestures lazily. "Too many immature assholes 'round here." He says this loud enough to catch the attention and death glares from some of his nosy onlookers. Izuna wants to flip them off, but he's too lazy for a fight right now. 

He reaches for his can of beer. Akihito — the sly bastard — withholds it. His smirk widens into a grin. "If they're gonna stare, the least we can do is give 'em somethin' worth lookin' at."

Izuna laughs. "I'd suck your cock, but I don't feel like getting sand in my mouth right now."

He makes a grab for the beer, but Akihito's quicker, catching the edges of the towel and yanking Izuna forward, catching his lips in a kiss that's all heat and want and _teethteethteeth._

Izuna laugh-moans against Akihito's mouth and together, they tumble to the sand.


	9. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: _The commoner finds (or inherits) an artifact the prince wants_ and _The prince is cursed and the commoner is the only one who knows how to break the spell_ (selected by **[Tuli-chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)** from **[All of the Prompts.](https://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/post/156639568317/hi-can-i-get-a-prompt-involving-a-prince-and-a)** ).

Akihito. I am falling into darkness. The weight of the world is pulling me under. Into oblivion. Into nothingness. I am drowning in the deep dark of empty. 

My lungs hurt. They burn like my eyes, like my hands, my spine that's heavy like cinder blocks. It is day and yet I cannot see the light. Even as I struggle and fight for a single second of breath, I am blinded by black. 

I can feel my lungs giving out. My limbs that refuse to fight anymore. I am falling, deeper, deeper. Into the abyss, alone.

If only I could see you right now. 

If only I could have your light.

  


* * *

  


Darkness is a place I know well. The man who calls himself my father was born into it. As was his father before him. And _his_ before _him._

Some people call it a curse. But it is my inheritance, my blood. 

It is all I have ever known.

  


* * *

  


Akihito. These are the things I hate about you. 

You make me lose control. You make me crave. So much that it scares me. 

You make me chase the light. I wander — unthinking — into territory unknown. I have never known such irrationality.

It is stupid as much as it is glorious.

  


* * *

  


I've always fought the fights I knew I'd win because it was the smart thing to do.

Now, I fight the fights I _have_ to win, because it's _you_ I'm fighting for.

  


* * *

  


Akihito. Before I met you, I have always chased the light. I looked for it in all the wrong places and I tried — in vain — to grasp what was out of reach.

Fei Long is a half-breed, equal parts light and darkness. One who is cursed as much as I, who is free as much as you.

I thought that I might find my salvation in him. 

But I only dragged him down with me.

  


* * *

  


This is another thing I hate about you. The way you look at me, like all you see is good, when I am nothing but a monster.

If there was ever a time I needed to be honest, it is now. 

And in this moment, I will tell you. 

_That I have never deserved you._

That my greatest fear is destroying you like I did Fei Long.

That you would be cursed because of me.

  


* * *

  


It is strange how easily worrying comes.

I worry about keeping you safe. I worry about the harm that would befall you if you remain in my company. I worry that your light would not be able to withstand my shadow.

I worry that I could not keep myself from your side, even if it means destroying us both.

  


* * *

  


Akihito. Your light is all the more precious because it is solely _yours._

It has not found its way to you through your father and his father before him and _his_ father before _him._

It shines all the brighter because of your unsurpassable strength. Your unwillingness to break. Your resilience that thrills and haunts me.

The world is fooled by darkness because it is _darkness_ that clouds their judgment. They look at me and they think me strong. 

They — foolishly — think you weak.

I would like to say that I have never known such idiocy, but that would be a blatant lie. 

There was a time when I thought you weak too. There was a time I hurt you, angry and afraid that I could never reach you. 

_Terrified_ that you would want nothing of _me._

  


* * *

  


Akihito. I am angry that I've hurt you.

And I hate how you always see right through me.

  


* * *

  


I hate how you unsettle me. Darkness obscures all. _No one_ should be able to see through it. 

I shouldn't have to look at you and see infallible trust in the warmth of your eyes.

  


* * *

  


Akihito. You make me hunger.

You make me _need_ you. You make me crave your light. You make me want to breathe you in to fill my starving lungs, consume you till I am sated, till there is nothing left of you or of me. 

Till there is only _us._

  


* * *

  


The weight of you covers me. You steal into my skin, my bones, the very depths of me where darkness churns and rages, unfettered. 

Your _light._ It wraps itself around my blood and bones, nourishing me. I am near insatiable, yet you share your light freely, willingly giving everything that I unhesitantly take.

You give like you've never known what it's like to run out. 

I let you drag me down and — unresisting — I fall. 

I have always been darkness. 

Now, I am darkness who has inherited the light.

I am deep in the abyss, and I am no longer alone.

  


* * *

  


Akihito. You make me happy.

You set me free.


	10. Melody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/131386853902/person-a-is-an-enthusiastic-dog-lover-theyre-out)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

If anyone could see us now, they'd probably describe us as _content. Lazy. Happy. At peace._

_Normal._

They would think we're exactly as we look. Two dudes vegging out in front of the TV on a Sunday afternoon. 

There's me, half-sitting, half-sinking into the couch cushions. 

There's you, with your head pillowed on the armrest and your feet in my lap. 

There's Travis Barker, stretched as long as he is on your torso, his front paws braced upon your chest. The little guy likes you better than me, and I know I could say I'm jealous, but that wouldn't be true, would it? I like you a whole lot better than me too. 

Anyone would look at us and think we're this cute picture-perfect family. Anyone would think that this is how we've always been. 

No one would think that six months ago, I woke up every day hating the world. I woke up every day wanting to die.

I thought a lot about suicide back then. Maybe I was a coward, but that's just the way it was. That's how it went when life chose to beat the everloving fuck out of me with its gargantuan shit stick. 

One day, I was this kid who almost had his shot at getting recruited by the Seahawks, and next thing I knew I was the kid with the busted leg, shooting morphine between my toes like I was Nicky fucking Shades. 

And one day, I was the kid who couldn't fucking hear.

See, I wasn't _born_ deaf, but you already knew that. The hardest thing wasn't even losing my shot at going pro, or my parents' divorce, or living my life in silence when I've always been so at home with _loud._

The hardest part was not knowing what to do with myself. Lost. Floundering. I hated everything that I was forced to become.

I always had plans, like getting into WSU, becoming the best damn wide receiver in NFL history, marrying Tarja Turunen, that kinda thing. 

I've always been the guy with grand dreams, and it's pretty fucking hard not being that guy anymore. 

And then I met _you._

You with your blond hair and megawatt smile. Your impudence and your spirit and your _life_ that makes me think that living wouldn't be so bad if I could just live these days with you.

I know I should be paying attention to the movie we're watching right now, the one we're watching without closed captions just so I can practice my lip-reading, but there's this scene in Central Park, and it just takes me back, y'know?

Back to when I was out walking Travis Barker and hating the world when you ran up to me — bright and effervescent and saying something I could not decipher, but so badly wanted to. 

I took one look at the camera 'round your neck and — unexplainably stupid and bizarrely arrogant and achingly desperate — assumed you wanted a picture. Maybe you recognized me from one of my high school games, maybe you knew me from one of my YouTube videos. When really, you were just asking if you could pet my dog. 

But you took a picture of me anyway, and many more after that, and I think that that was how I fell for you, watching you watch me through your viewfinder and knowing you didn't see a football star or a rock star or a deaf guy. All you saw was _me._

There's this guy on the TV screen jogging with his earphones in, and it makes me think of all the times I'd watch you sing, placing my fingers against your throat so I could "hear" you.

I think about the times we rock out in my basement. The car rides where we scream all the songs we love at the top of our lungs. The days we'd spend just about anywhere, talking _music_ for hours. 

Days that keep me sane. You gave me courage to sing again. You always tell me I sound just as good as I used to and it'd sound patronizing if it were coming from anyone else but you. 

You are the steady, reliable backbeat to my screaming, discordant mess of chords. You make me want to keep breathing. You make me like who I am.

Your eyes that never lie. Your hands that know the rhythm of my body. Your lips that never tire of saying my name. _"Izuna. Izuna. Izuna."_ I don't have to hear your voice to know how good it sounds upon your tongue.

The guy in the movie, he's finally caught on to the shadowed figures tailing him and he's breaking into a panicked run. You dig your heel into my thigh and say, with your excited lips and fumbling hands, "This is my favorite part!"

You wanna know what my favorite part is, Akihito? It's _this_ right here — you, me, Travis Barker in this little part of our world that's all kinds of fucked up and all kinds of _right._


	11. Melt

He fights for control, always, always. 

His heart is caged in ice. His flame, ruthlessly smothered.

He says, _Stay away._

Says, _I'll hurt you if you don't._

He means, _Everyone leaves me. I'm used to it._

Means, _But just this once, **stay.**_

Midoriya looks at him with eyes that see right through. To his heart encased in frost. To the heart that rages and burns beneath. 

Then it's lips, soft and gentle against his scar, and Todoroki breaks, yields, _gives._


	12. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/127559678557/medieval-au-person-b-is-a-princeprincess-and)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

He remembers the sting of the whip. The sound it made when it swished through the air. The pain exploding across his back, burning, tearing. 

One lash on the good days. Three on the bad ones. Six on the worst.

He remembers the tremble of his legs. Blood and bile in his mouth. The feel of the ground beneath his palms and knees is too familiar. 

Whips. Belts. Wood. Fists. Rough hands. Hot breath. Bruises and burns.

He remembers breaking beneath them all. 

Madara remembers pain. He remembers humiliation. Remembers anger and loneliness and the tempting tease of death, always dancing out of reach.

But he does not remember Tobirama.

  


* * *

  


Uchiha Madara is fifteen, the only son and heir of King Tajima. At five, he was lost. He remained unfound for ten years. 

His mother passed away of an illness seven years ago. 

This is what he is told. 

They do not tell him she died of a broken heart. 

Madara knows anyway.

  


* * *

  


Senju Tobirama will not leave him alone. 

He has not left his side since he rescued Madara from the grasp of his captors. Has hovered close, even as Madara was fussed over by everyone claiming to be a family member, a tutor, a loyal servant. 

Madara remembers almost nothing. He lets himself be dragged in various directions, into various outfits, steered toward varied company. There are sun-bright smiles. _The prince has returned!_ A cry, joyous on many lips. 

He is smothered and overwhelmed, even long after his homecoming. 

Madara feels like he might suffocate. He reaches — panicked and desperate — for a lifeline. 

And Tobirama is always there, watching.

  


* * *

  


The Senju boys were once his playmates. 

This, Madara is reminded of by Senju Hashirama, the oldest of them, and Tobirama's twin.

Their father is the King's most trusted advisor and closest friend. They have known Madara since his birth. They were eleven when he was kidnapped. 

Madara remembers nothing of Hashirama's stories. But there are things unsaid, that he simply _knows._

He knows the dimples of Hashirama's cheeks. Knows the strength of his broad shoulders, the familiarity of his hands beneath his knees when he used to give Madara piggyback rides around the castle grounds.

He knows the timbre of Tobirama's voice, the cadence of it when he read Madara tales of dragons and their riders. The sharpness of his blood red eyes, ever discerning. 

His eyes, intelligent and expressive, unchanging.

  


* * *

  


Each night, Madara wakes, cloaked in cold sweat, screaming.

It is always Tobirama who reaches him first. Tobirama who soothes him with quiet words and gentle touches. Tobirama who stays, who remains long after he's coaxed Madara back to sleep. Tobirama who Madara finds by his bedside when he wakes a second time, silent.

Tobirama whose eyes swear revenge.

  


* * *

  


He watches Tobirama dress. Watches him fasten each piece of armor with practiced ease. Watches him sheathe his sword, mount his horse. 

Madara wants to scream, _Don't go!_

_Don't leave me alone._

He withholds his cries. He cannot bear to watch Tobirama leave. He watches, terrified that the sight of Tobirama's back would be his final memory of him.

  


* * *

  


When Tobirama returns, his eyes are aflame with bloodlust. His mouth is hard, cold with grim satisfaction. He is covered in blood. 

None of it is his own. 

This, Madara knows before anyone tells him.

  


* * *

  


Death is a constant thought. Even now, within the palace, wrapped in the trappings of the finest silks and the softest of cottons, Madara feels trammeled, breathless, _terrified._

Guilt and shame war and rage inside him. Bitterness, not far behind. 

Tajima looks at him, and Madara cannot bear the grief in his eyes. He knows that he is changed. Knows that his father does not know him. 

Madara sees his pain and longs for death. He wishes he had died at the hands of his captors. Better to have died as his family remembered him, than to live as a stranger among them. 

He looks at Tobirama and eyes his blade. He feels Tobirama's gaze on him. 

His gaze that's too sharp, too discerning, too knowing. 

Madara averts his own like the coward he is.

  


* * *

  


The thing he hates most is the endless game of _Remember when…?_

He hates the expectancy that shines in everyone's eyes, the disappointment in them when he is frustratingly unable to be the person they want him to be.

Madara's memories of his childhood are fragmented and blurred. He remembers his mother's gentle voice, though not her face. His father's guiding hands, though not his lessons.

He does not remember time. It is but an interminable moment, of agony, blood, crippling _fear._

"I cannot be a son to my father," he tells Tobirama, loathing the tremble in his voice, his bones. "I am not the crown prince. Nor am I the playmate you and your brother once knew." He cannot meet his eyes. He is afraid of the hurt he might find in them.

But there are — unexpected, though not unwelcome — fingers beneath his chin, tilting up. Madara does not flinch beneath the touch. This surprises him. 

"You do not need to be anyone but yourself," Tobirama tells him. 

And Madara knows, that Tobirama is not attempting to appease him. He says it simply, like an obvious truth. His eyes are ever honest. 

Madara trembles and trembles, but does not break.

  


* * *

  


They are seated by the river, beneath the shade of trees dappled with sunlight. Hashirama catches him staring. "What is it? Have I got mud on my face?" 

"Didn't your hair used to be short?" Madara asks, immediately feeling foolish and guilty for asking something he should already know.

Hashirama's smile is nothing but kind. "It was," he says. "You used to tug on my bangs. You thought it was hilarious."

"He means _ridiculous,_ " Tobirama pipes up. "You had the dumbest haircut in the entire kingdom, Brother."

"And yours hasn't moved in thirteen years!" Hashirama counters. 

Madara laughs. Loud. Honest. It isn't funny, but he laughs anyway, his thin frame rocking with mirth. 

The twins are staring at him, startled. Grins spread slow over their features. They look nothing alike, but their smiles are the same. Then, they are laughing with him.

It is all too nostalgic, too familiar. Too much like _home._

Madara knows that the last time they laughed together was a day much like this one, when they were not knights or princes, simply _boys._

  


* * *

  


He watches Tobirama as much as Tobirama watches _him._

Madara's eyes track Tobirama's movements. The furrow of his brows. The curve of his lips. The flex of his fingers. His breaths. His steps. 

Madara watches till all that is Tobirama is burned into his memory. 

During lessons, his mind drifts, to the exasperation of his tutors. He feels the eyes of his father on him, somewhere between worried, pitying, and amused. 

Madara observes Tobirama, in each waking moment, even in his dreams.

  


* * *

  


It is Tobirama who keeps him sane. Tobirama who drives him to madness. 

Madara knows this, as well as he knows every breath in his body. 

He tosses and turns at night and, for the first time, it is not the fear of nightmares that keeps him awake. 

His hand snakes beneath the folds of his robe. Already, he is hard, painfully so. He is wet and wanting.

He touches himself. His right hand, a firm fist around his cock, his left, within the sharp grip of his teeth. 

Madara spreads his legs, imagines Tobirama between them. He _needs_ Tobirama, inside him, all over him, erasing all the memories Madara does not want.

Memories of teeth and hands and bodies that make him recoil in disgust. Hands that took him apart. Broke him, unmade him, left him cowering on the ground after in fear and shame and self-loathing.

His hand tightens. His teeth sink into his own skin, drawing blood. Madara lies in a pool of sweat and satin sheets, pleasuring himself, thinking _Tobirama, Tobirama, Tobirama,_ wishing he would walk in right now to witness Madara writhing around like a common, cock-starved whore.

He wants so much for Tobirama to see him like this. To _want_ him like this. Imagines the red of his eyes ignited with shameless hunger.

Madara comes with a strangled cry around the taste of blood and skin and Tobirama's name between his lips.

  


* * *

  


He has taken to running away, seeking solace in rooms unused, in hallways unoccupied. 

It is wearying, always being watched. He cannot bear the constant pressure of it, this stifling observation. The way he is looked at as if he may disappear at any moment.

Madara does not enjoy being watched by anyone who isn't Tobirama.

He hides himself most often amid the trees by the river. Its rhythm calms him. Somedays, he sits on the branches of the tallest trees, listening to the sounds of the forest. Somedays, he stands upon the bank, skipping stones, watching them sink.

He hides away, and it is Tobirama who always finds him.

  


* * *

  


Tobirama stares at him with a gaze so intense, Madara knows most would — _should_ — find it intimidating.

But he does not. There is nothing about Tobirama that frightens him. There are none he feels safer with than Tobirama.

Tobirama is his guard, his shadow, but it is _Madara_ who follows him around like a loyal puppy seeking praise. He tries to walk all the steps Tobirama does. He tries — hard — to measure up. 

He wants Tobirama to look upon him and see an equal. Not a child dumb enough to get himself kidnapped. Weak enough to remain a slave for over a decade. Pathetic enough to inspire pity and sorrow in all around him. 

Everything about Tobirama exudes power and strength. 

Excitement. Hunger. _Want._ These are the emotions engendered in him, each time Tobirama glances his way.

Madara trails Tobirama, tries to be good, to be perfect, to be _strong._ Attempts to impress. To be noticed. To be _loved._

He would do anything to be the solitary focus of that intent gaze. 

Madara returns that gaze, unflinching, and allows himself to _hope._

  


* * *

  


Somedays, he lies in bed long after he has woken, willing Tobirama to find him. 

Tobirama is — more often than not — never truly far away. He lingers outside Madara's door, ever watchful, yet mindful of Madara's need for space.

Madara knows this, loves and loathes him for it.

He lies upon the sheets, not daring to move or breathe. He wants Tobirama to come in, unannounced and unasked. Wants Tobirama to lie on top of him, engulf him so completely till he is no longer himself.

Madara remains frozen, thinking, wishing, pleading, _Come in. Come in. Come in._

Thinks, _You need not ask. You need only take and I will never tell a soul._

Thinks, _I would only surrender._

  


* * *

  


The hour is late, yet sleep evades him. 

Madara does not often sleep these days. The constant whirl of his thoughts — his fantasies, his desires — keeps him awake. Dark circles are ever present beneath his eyes, like crescent shadows. His skin is pale. His body, starved. 

He cannot find rest without Tobirama. 

His father had sent Tobirama on a mission, across the borders of their lands. Hashirama had gone with him. Another knight is tasked with keeping watch over Madara. He does everything in his power to evade him.

Madara knows that this is the King's attempt at keeping some distance between his knight and his son. 

It irks him. That his father would so easily separate them. That his feelings for Tobirama had not gone unnoticed. If Tajima knew, did it not mean Tobirama knew as well? 

And if he did, why had he said nothing about it?

Fear seizes his heart, sudden and cruel. With it comes a wave of horrified shame. His lungs constrict. Hurt blooms within his chest. He had misinterpreted the meaning of Tobirama's gaze. He did not care. Did not — _would not_ — feel the same. He did not want Madara as anything more than his ward.

  


* * *

  


A week passes. Then another. Tobirama does not return.

Madara finds it harder to breathe.

  


* * *

  


He has taken to hiding out in Tobirama's chambers. No one ever thinks to look for him there. 

Madara sits at his desk, runs his fingers over the patterns in the wood. He fingers the pages of Tobirama's books. Touches the blades upon the walls, the clothes in his closet. He slips into one of Tobirama's shirts. Slips between the sheets on his bed.

Madara buries his face in Tobirama's pillow and inhales. Tobirama's scent. Like frost and wood and earth. Like the river. 

Madara remembers Tobirama's hand in his hair. The smiles on his face, rare and freely given only to those closest to him. The strength of his being. The fierce, fiery depths of his eyes. 

Madara remembers, and drifts into sleep.

  


* * *

  


He wakes to Tobirama staring at him. 

Tobirama, in his armor, the scent of blood and battle and smoke that's heavy upon him. 

Madara's eyes widen. He should be ashamed at being caught, in Tobirama's bed, in Tobirama's shirt. He should apologize. But his body moves before he can speak, before he can even deign to think.

He leaps out of bed, reaches for Tobirama, embraces him like he's forgotten how to let go. 

It's been a month.

 _One whole month,_ and Tobirama is _here,_ before him, present and _alive._

Madara clings to him, desperate and relieved. He feels Tobirama's hands, reaching up. The gentle grip upon his arms, coaxing, untangling. 

He feels his grip loosening, and he panics. The hurt swells and swells, constricts his chest. He should have known. He _had_ known and yet, he'd dared hope. 

He'd been a fool. 

Madara lets go, humiliation churning within his gut. He wills himself not to lash out. Not to cry. Not to break. 

He lets go, but — shockingly, confusingly — Tobirama doesn't. 

His hand is gentle around Madara's wrist. His lips are silent. His eyes are not. 

They blaze, trenchant and searing. _Hungry._

He does not have time to think, to react. Tobirama's hand is beneath his chin. The other, a firm grip upon his wrist. And Tobirama's lips are on his, taking.

_Devouring._

  


* * *

  


It is the easiest thing to surrender. They lie naked upon the bed, hands and lips wandering unrestrained over heated skin. 

Tobirama is so broad, so powerful. Madara clings to him, aching to be engulfed. To be overwhelmed. To be lost again.

He could die right now, suffocated beneath the weight of Tobirama and he wouldn't mind. He wants to breathe till Tobirama replaces all the air in his lungs. All the blood in his veins. 

They kiss and touch like long-starved things. Madara willingly spreads his legs. Tobirama easily finds his way between them.

There is a vial of oil in Tobirama's hand. Madara does not wonder where it came from. He is too distracted by the heat of Tobirama's kisses. The strength of his body. The way his muscles shift and bunch beneath his skin. His coated fingers between the cleft of Madara's ass, caressing.

Madara gasps, needy and lewd. It is too good. He is no virgin, and he knows that Tobirama knows this, though he has never felt such pleasure from fingers alone.

He wants and _wants._ Pleasure and anticipation curl in his gut. His arms wind around Tobirama's neck, fingers digging into flesh, impatient. 

Tobirama's fingers withdraw. A hand hooks itself beneath Madara's knee, draws his leg upward. The head of his cock, scalding against Madara's asshole.

Madara whines, and Tobirama pushes in. A loud cry fills the room, and Madara is startled to realize that he is capable of such sound. 

Tobirama is… considerably _larger_ than the men who had forced themselves upon Madara. The size of him, his length, his heat — it is all frightening as much as it is pleasurable. 

Violent trembles rack his frame. His hands are bruising grips upon Tobirama's skin. His breaths are harsh between them. 

Tobirama's gaze is ever intent upon him. "Relax," he commands, and Madara tries to obey. His fingers come to stroke Madara's cheek, and Madara leans into the touch, craving more. 

He never wants Tobirama to stop touching him.

And Tobirama doesn't. His fingers mark a trail along Madara's face, his neck, his body. He runs his thumb along the hardened peak of Madara's nipple. His hand smooths its way down his side, from rib to hip.

Tobirama's touches are new and familiar. Madara finds himself responding to them, his body twisting and writhing as if his skin were chasing the dance of Tobirama's fingers.

Tobirama's fingers, around his cock. 

Madara moans — too loud, too honest — and bucks his hips. His ass clenches around Tobirama's cock. 

Tobirama touches. He thrusts deep, rocks inside Madara, hits that spot inside him that shoves all thought from his mind. Over and over. 

Lips. Teeth. Tongue. Hands. Cock. 

There is no place of Madara left unmarked. 

They fall into a rhythm as if they'd done this before. This whole moment is a mass of contradictions. Of familiar and unknown. Erratic and well-timed. Pleasure and pain.

Tobirama is too good, too hot, too _much_ inside him. It makes Madara dizzy with too many unnamable emotions. Speech is driven from him. He wraps himself tight around Tobirama, letting his body say all the things his tongue cannot.

  


* * *

  


He sits atop the sheets, knees raised to his chest and ankles crossed, dressed in Tobirama's shirt and nothing else. 

Tobirama lies on his back, uncovered, running his fingers along the pale curve of Madara's calf, tracing the fine hairs upon his shin. 

It makes shivers run up and down Madara's spine. Makes his spent cock twitch with want.

Tobirama smirks, as if all that Madara is thinking, feeling, _desiring_ is transmitted through the barest touches of skin. "It looks good on you," he says, and Madara knows he means the shirt.

"I missed you," Madara blurts, knowing it is neither here nor there, but unable — and unwilling — to stop himself.

Tobirama's smile is warm. His hand gentles upon Madara's leg. "And I, you." He says this with no trace of mawkishness. He says it as fact, blunt and straightforward as he always is, always has been.

Madara leans forward and kisses him. 

He has never wanted someone so completely.

Has never wanted to be anyone's everything.

  


* * *

  


The moon is everywhere. It is reflected upon the water. Its glow illuminates the silver of Tobirama's hair, glints off the edge of his blade.

Beneath the shadow of his favorite tree, Madara sits and watches. 

Watches Tobirama by the river's edge, the precision of his sword, the silent fluidity of his steps, the raw potency of his body.

The sound his blade makes as it sings through still air. The near inaudible rhythm of his breaths. The sweat that glimmers upon his skin. The taut muscles beneath.

These are the things that Madara would remember. 

Tobirama, Madara thinks, is both the moon and the blade. Sharp. Cold. Stunning. Intimidating. 

Beauty and power and death, intertwined. 

Madara watches, feels breath catch in his throat. 

Tobirama looks at him with wolf-eyes and wolf-teeth, keen and rapacious and _savage._

And Madara — willingly and always — surrenders. 

_Consume me._


	13. Miles

Maybe one day, they'll find something like peace. 

Now, it feels so much like running away. 

There's probably a rule about this somewhere, about transporting a minor who isn't family across state lines and the legality of it all. Tobirama thinks this, absent and uncaring. He is not a lawyer nor a cop and he wants nothing to do with either. 

His hands are relaxed upon the steering wheel of his BMW. He watches Madara out of the corner of his eye. 

Madara, slouched in his seat, bare feet upon the dashboard. Chipped nail polish on his toes. Black streaks upon pale flesh where he'd struggled to stay within the borders of his nails. 

A tiny smile curves Tobirama's lips. Privately, he thinks this endearing. Madara has always been endearing in all his awkwardness. 

"Maybe in another life, I could've been powerful," Madara says, over _Landslide_ on the radio, around the dark green curly straw in his soda, the cheap brandless shit that's so bottom shelf, it may as well be on the floor. Madara had — unfortunately — inherited Izuna's terrible taste in junk food.

Tobirama's grip tightens around the wheel. He knows what Madara is thinking. It makes him abruptly pull over, kill the engine. He steps out of the car. Leans against the hood and lights two cigarettes. He looks ahead, along the deserted road that doesn't seem to end. He does this to calm himself, to keep his temper leashed beneath his blood and bones. 

It is always there. The blood-boiling _rage_ that simmers beneath his flesh each time he thinks about Madara's past.

He can feel Madara's eyes on him through the windshield. Thirteen heartbeats. The opening and closing of a door. Madara by his side, taking his cigarette from Tobirama's fingers. There is hesitance in his movements. Tobirama glances down and sees that Madara is still barefoot.

They remain that way, silent. Tobirama is distinctly aware of Madara's breaths. Aware of all this heat in what little space still lies between their bodies.

His hand traverses that space, a touch that's gentle upon Madara's shoulder. Tobirama guides Madara to face him. He drops his cigarette in the dirt. Brushes the bangs from Madara's face, revealing his right eye. 

His eye, which isn't there anymore. Tobirama runs his thumb along the closed eyelid, the scars that run from brow to cheek, the badly burned flesh. He feels Madara's breath still, feels him shiver beneath his touch. 

"There is nothing weak about you," Tobirama says, angry and vehement, like he's said countlessly, tirelessly before. He would keep saying this till Madara believes him.

Maybe one day, Madara would stop running. 

Maybe he'd leave his nightmares and ghosts buried along this endless highway and find his version of peace.

For now, Tobirama presses his kiss to Madara's scars, and hopes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Forever sweet and never ending](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988062) by [Takene_ne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takene_ne/pseuds/Takene_ne)




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